All About Forgiveness
by Jinxgirl
Summary: Spoilers for season eight, but not necessary to read the comics to understand. After what Angel has done, Faith is the only one willing to help him come back to himself. Will be a few chapters.
1. Chapter 1

All About Forgiveness

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.

Author notes: This takes place at the end of season eight. However it is not necessary to have read the comics to understand the story. SPOILERS for Season eight are in it. This takes place after Angel has killed Giles; this is the story of Faith deciding to take him in after and care for him.

They would have killed him, if Faith was willing to let them.

Xander was the first to make a move, but he was not the only one with the desire. Spike, Dawn, Kennedy, Willow, when she was coherent enough, any one of the Slayers who hadn't melted to death in her midst, any one of the witches who could no longer call themselves as such. Had she allowed it, either initially or at any time after, any one of them would have had no problem making a sharp wooden end of something make contact with Angel's chest.

But she couldn't let them do that. Even now, even with the depth of Angel's mistakes, even with the world-changing consequences, on both a literal and personal level, of what he had done…even now, if there was any piece of Angel left, Faith could never let him go. And she was not willing to lose one of the very few who had ever shown any sort of love towards her.

Especially now, in the wake of the tremendous loss of another who had done so.

Faith had felt it, when Angel killed Giles. Not through Giles, though they had grown close over the past year, forging a relationship she would never have thought possible, a relationship she could not define and so actively avoided attempting to put a label on. Even so, she still was not quite so enmeshed with him as to feel his pain. But Buffy's…Buffy's was a different story.

There had always been an odd, almost physical, and often mental connection between her and Buffy from the first time Faith lay eyes on her, a drawing together that, no matter their feelings toward each other or their physical or emotional distance, could only be described as a sort of bond. It was a tie that, like her relationship with Giles, Faith could not explain. It had not disappeared when they had shared the power of their Slayerhood with other girls, nor had Faith felt anything like it with other Slayers since. It appeared to be unique to Buffy and Faith themselves, perhaps because of their status as the original Chosen Two, perhaps because of a chemistry of sorts reacting between their unique individual physiologies. Though it was fainter across distance that lapsed between them, whether physical or emotional, if something extreme were to occur to Buffy, either emotionally or physically, Faith was sometimes unconsciously able to "tune in" to her.

Giles's murder was such a time. If it were not for their connection, Faith would never have known anything was even wrong. She had felt the shuddering impact of all magic being drained from earth, watched the Wiccans in the forest all around her dropping weakened to the ground, heard Willow's hysterical sobs, and she had almost smiled, even as she worked to gather and tote the melted, mutilated bodies of the Slayers she had been leading in battle less than five minutes before.

He got the scythe to her, she thought to herself, the intensity of Giles's face as he gripped her shoulder on the battlefield, asking her for its surrender, flickering to her vision. He got it to her, and B destroyed the seed, saved the day like usual. About-

But then it hit her, the intensity of grief and anguish, Buffy's pain, rolling through her in sharp bursts of emotional turmoil, and without another moment's pause Faith ran, not daring to consider what it meant.

It was not difficult to find the under dwelling of the seed's former concealment. She only needed to follow the direction of Buffy's strong emotion, for the closer she drew on it, the more powerfully Faith could feel her, to the point that she was in physical pain herself. Her muscles were weak and shaky, her heart squeezing tightly in her chest, and she didn't pause even as her breathing grew ragged and her throat burned, dread closing its fist hard around her stomach.

Four figures remained within the dim dwelling where the Master had once protected the seed that could have ruined them all; a fast glance around showed no sign of the Master himself, and Faith assumed that someone must have killed him…for the third damn time now. Xander remained crouched over a fetally curled Buffy, one hand lightly resting on her shoulder as she did not respond to his softly spoken words, shivering hard as tears streamed down her face. She was beaten, bruised, bloody, and besmeared with dirt and grime, but none of this accounted for her hysteria. And as shocking as it was to see Buffy Summers in such a broken state, it was neither she nor Xander that drew Faith's shocked stare and paralysis of limbs.

Giles lay on the floor a few feet away from Buffy, his body still, his limbs carelessly flung out in a manner of a puppet whose strings had been cut. His eyes were open, unblinking, and uncomprehending in death, not the eyes of Giles, but of a mannequin. His neck was almost entirely twisted to one side, the damaged, bloody tendons and broken vertebrae visible, and Faith swallowed desperately against bile rising in her throat.

And nearby…nearby sat Angel, his face and hands splattered with blood, his expression somehow both blank and utterly gutted all at once. Looking at Angel and the blood on his hands, Faith couldn't move. She saw Angel before her, but her lips wanted to form the word 'Angelus.'

She must have made some sort of sound, because Xander looked up at her, his hand still resting on Buffy's shoulder, and the black bitterness in his eye was almost as astonishing as anything else. Faith had not thought Xander Harris capable of such hatred, even towards her.

"He was possessed," he said flatly, though Faith had not asked, his eye hard as it held hers. "By the seed, I guess, or Twilight, or whatever the hell made him a murdering psychopath this time around. He did it. He killed Giles. Now, I think it's time someone took care of him, like he should have been two centuries ago. Back when none of this had happened yet and never would have, if anyone had actually done the right thing and taken him out like any other murdering blood sucking fiend, hair gel or not."

He stood up then, and with sure, square-shouldered strides, began to head towards a dropped stake some distance away from Buffy's curled form. And this was the action Faith needed to push her into mobility.

"No!" she shouted, and with sudden ease of movement she threw herself in front of Angel's huddled form, blocking Xander from reaching him just as he began towards him, stake in hand. "No, Xander, you can't do this."

He tried to fight her, of course. Not physically, because even when righteously enraged, Xander knew better than to attempt violence against an upset and passionate Slayer. But he argued and yelled, with wild gestures and taut tones, attempting to reason and rage all at once. But Faith did not budge. Even when Xander called her a shield to a murderer, a back-stabbing traitor to Giles's memory, even when her legs shook and tears burned hotly behind her eyes and scalded her throat, Faith refused to back down. She didn't know what could be done, but she did know that she could not let Xander or anyone else kill Angel. She could not let him die.

Eventually Xander gave up in disgust, hissing over his shoulder to her before tenderly helping the still-sobbing Buffy to her feet and guiding her away.

"You'll never change, Faith. You're exactly how you used to be…no, you're worse. You don't just escape justice for your own evil. Now you make sure everyone else does too."

He probably didn't mean it, at least not to the extent that he seemed to when he said it, not in his heart. But he had meant it in the moment, and Faith felt it as if he had punched her in the solar plexus.

Still standing in front of Angel's hunched, motionless form, her legs quivering, Faith's eyes drifted to Giles's body, only a few feet away. She could not take his body with her, not if she were to leave now with Angel, who it seemed would be trouble enough. She knew that Xander would bring others back, people who would take care of him. But she could not leave here without giving him the respect he deserved, no matter how it killed her inside to do it.

She went to him on still shaky legs, almost collapsing rather than simply kneeling at his side. For a few moments she could only stare at Giles's broken form, desperately battling her own emotion. Then, with a controlled expression she reached out, hating the cold stiffness already coming over his limbs, and she carefully straightened his neck and limbs, repositioning his body to a more natural position. With gentle touch she wiped as much blood as she could with the hem of her sleeve, hating the damp stickiness of his blood against her wrist, and then reached with a trembling hand to close his eyes.

When she turned back to Angel, he still had not moved. He had not spoken, and it seemed to Faith that he had not blinked. It was clear to her that he had broken in a way perhaps deeper and more fully than Giles. He would not be functioning on his own.

Faith didn't want to touch him. She didn't even want to look at him, not with his blank, staring eyes, eyes that were almost as dead as Giles's. Not with Giles's blood still splattered over his face. But it had to be done, so she pulled him to his feet with firm but reluctant hands, and with averted eyes and a shuddery inhalation, began to lead him away from the site of his destruction.

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It was night, but by the time the two emerged into the open air, they did not sleep. They walked without sleeping, Faith grasping Angel's arm and slowly pulling him along, and she struggled to form a plan.

She could not take him back among the others, that much was obvious. Though she had a key to Giles's flat and had been informed that she could stay there at any time she may wish to, she clearly could not do so now, as it was. The only option was to take the car Giles had given her and drive it back to the ramshackled apartment she had called home back in Cleveland, before any of this had begun, until she could think of a better plan.

She drove through the night without speaking, rarely even glancing at the still silent Angel in the passenger seat. As dawn drew near, Faith began to look for somewhere to spend the morning. With Angel in tow, fully exposed to the sun as he was, it was obvious that they would not be able to drive during the day.

She pulled into the first crappy motel she could find, slamming the car door hard as she strode to the lobby to reserve a room. She didn't look back at Angel, nor did she speak to him. It was clear that it was unnecessary by this point to tell him to stay put. It had been hours now, and unless Faith herself guided him, Angel was as still and blank as a marble statue of his own namesake.

The clerk looked at her somewhat skittishly when Faith paid for the room; he was a small, weasely looking man with a thin mustache and glasses, and he seemed in his abrupt manner to wish Faith into her room as quickly as possible. It took her until she reached the car and began the process of transferring Angel inside to realize how she must have appeared. Her clothes were streaked with blood and dirt, torn in some areas, singed in others, and small, healing wounds were scattered over her face and arms. It had been a long day…hell, it had been a long lifetime.

She pushed down on Angel's shoulders, making him sit on one of the threadbare twin beds inside their room's shabby interior, and emerged from the cramped, none-too-clean bathroom with a dampened, slightly smelly washcloth. Her stomach rolled every time she looked at him, every time she saw his face, his hands, and knew it was Giles's blood covering them, traces of what had once been his life force. She could not look at Angel like that for long, and her heart shrank from the thought of touching him, Giles's blood on him. But he wouldn't do it himself…and it had to be done.

Angel remained still as Faith cleaned his face and hands quickly but thoroughly, almost holding her breath, her heart hammering. There seemed to be little comprehension in his eyes. It was as if he were no longer there, as if only the shell of his body, himself, remained.

Finishing and letting the washcloth drop to the floor, Faith took in a slow breath, remaining knelt before him, and looked into his eyes. They were dark holes, reflecting no light, but rather seeming to absorb it into their depths. When she spoke, her voice was calm, measured.

"Angel."

He didn't respond. There was no sign of recognition in his expression. It was almost as if he were unable to hear her. Continuing to watch him, swallowing, Faith tried again.

"Angel. Look at me."

He was looking at her, or rather, his face was turned in the direction of hers, but still, he did not seem to see. Exhaling, the silence seeming to crawl under her skin and scratch her from the inside out, Faith put her hands on her thighs and stood abruptly, speaking to him now in a lower tone, without bothering to look at him.

"Go to sleep."

She slammed the bathroom door behind her, almost hard enough to take it off its hinges, and turned the water in the shower as hot as it would go. Her hands shook, and she formed fists quickly at her sides.

She would have given fifty dollars for a cigarette then. She would have given her arm to be able to turn back time, to rewind to one moment in battle, one decision to obey, to instead choose to refuse Giles's request of her, and go to buffy in his stead.

She would have given both arms. Maybe even her life.

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	2. Chapter 2

All About Forgiveness

Disclaimer first chapter

Chapter 2

The water of the motel shower was scalding, even if the nozzle's pressure was weak, hardly more than a drizzle. It stung against the burns and bruises of her bare skin, but Faith welcomed the pain, only wishing that it was more intense, that she could lose herself in the ebb and flow of its existence in her form.

The small room was soon full of steam so thick and sweltering that it was nearly a fog, heavy and oppressive to the extent that one could barely see or draw breath. Faith lowered her face into the water's stream, letting her damp hair fall forward to obscure her features. When the tears came, mingling with the shower's spray and almost as hot on her skin, she felt marginally more secure, as if she could manage by doing so to hide from her own self.

She stood under the water's flow until its temperature grew lukewarm, then icy, until her silent sobs stilled to occasional sniffs, until the pain in her chest that had strongly pressed against her heart became a dull, throbbing ache. She stood until she was certain she could face Angel again and remain standing, until her eyes were sliding closed from exhaustion. It wasn't until then that she could shut the shower off, slip still dripping into a clean set of clothes, and lie with open eyes on the other twin bed, letting the dampness of her body slowly spread on the sheets and pillow beneath her.

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It was the horrors in his dreams rather than her own that awaken her. More specifically, it was his cries, his words that were just lower than screams.

Faith bolted up with a gasping release of breath, her heart knocking hard inside her chest, her skin flushed and prickling with restless near panic. There was dampness on her cheeks that she was not sure whether it was sweat or tears, and for a few moments she was suspended in time, caught in a vision of blood and crumpled bodies, of broken bones and blank eyes behind skewed glasses, of gasping sobs and stiffened cold limbs.

But the cries continued outside of herself, frantic gulps of pain and remorse, and the dim features of the room returned to her, settling her back into the reality of the moment.

It was Angel who was making those sounds, Angel who was tossing about in his bed with his eyes screwed shut, flinging sheets and blankets to the floor. His face in sleep showed deep, intense feeling that was absent when he was awake…it was distorted with an anguish and sorrow that Faith knew all too well.

She swung her legs over the side of her bed and stood on slightly unsteady legs, making her way to his side and standing over him. He was whimpering, almost in tears, curling into as small as form as a person of his size could manage, and even with the sadness Faith felt to look at him, the pity and compassion, there was also a smaller piece of her that was gratified at his torment. He had earned it, after what he had done, after taking Giles away from her and leaving her with only this.

She didn't want to touch him, for it seemed clear that he would lash out, or else recoil back from her hand. She called his name instead, her voice sharpening with each repetition. When Angel opened his eyes, his gaze was raw and alive with his anguish. For the first time, he was looking at her instead of through her, and for the first time, Faith felt a surge of hope that he could be reached.

"Angel," she repeated, and she reached to take his shoulder, still looking into his eyes.

But Angel jerked back from her touch, his eyes wide with alarm- a fear she suspected was not for himself, and what she might do to him, but for her and what he could do to her. Moments later his eyes went dark and blank again, and the brief opening for a connection was gone. Faith did not try to touch or speak to him again.

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As the bright sunlight of the morning outside filtered through the motel room's cheap white blinds, Faith turned her face slowly towards Angel's still form on the bed and imagined opening the blinds…opening the windows, and watching Angel burn. She thought about it with the weary idleness of a daydreaming child, a child who is too tired to carry out her plans. And in the end, it was drifting back to sleep, rather than an active decision, that decided for her.

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"Angel," she said softly, hoping for a look, a twitch, some sort of acknowledgement, if not a spoken response, but there was nothing. Even now, nearly twelve hours after the seed's destruction and what Angel had done, there was nothing.

She was sitting facing him on her own bed, her teeth brushed, hair combed, determination in her gaze, but it was wasted for his benefit. For Angel, it was as if no one was there at all.

"We need to talk about what you did. About what's going to happen now," she said firmly, lifting her jaw, and when there was still no sign of a reply from the figure across from her, she exhaled, continuing.

"Angel. We…what you did. To…"

She couldn't do it, not yet. She couldn't say Giles's name, not if she wanted to have any degree of emotional control over herself. And she definitely couldn't say that Angel had killed him.

Faith swallowed, cleared her throat, and her eyes shifted to the side before she forced them back to Angel's motionless face, beginning again.

"What you did. It wasn't…I know…I know it wasn't you. That it wasn't your fault."

That was not to say that he was blameless. Sure, he hadn't been in control, it hadn't been Angel behind the wheel when he lay his hands on Giles, when he took him by the throat and snapped his neck. Angel had not deliberately done so; only his hands, his body, was guilty of that. There were other deeds, however, that he did hold responsibility for. Bad decisions, ill kept conspiracies, good intentions twisted into terrible deeds, and whatever his thoughts and however he had been used, Angel did bear responsibility for that. It had taken Faith most of the rest of the night before to struggle to sort out the difference, to come to a point where her spoken words now were sincere, and even so she was fighting at times to recall.

She shifted her weight on the bed, lifting her eyes to the ceiling as another exhalation shuddered through her, as she tried to explain.

"I want…I'll help you. Do my best. I mean, you helped me. Before. Even when I helped you too, really you were still helping me. Making me kind of grow…showing me I could do it, or whatever. That I was really getting to where I wanted to be. How I had stuff to offer, and…"

She trailed off, swallowing again, finding that it was too uncomfortable for her to look straight at Angel for more than a minute at a time, when he was so completely unresponsive. He didn't speak, didn't' look at her, didn't so much as flinch, and Faith gritted her teeth, suddenly wanting with great intensity to see something in him. Anything.

"You told me I could be a champion," she said softly, her words barely above a whisper. "And that's, it's what I'm trying for here. I won't give up on you."

She waited for almost five minutes. For a moment she thought she saw a flicker of emotion, a reaction of some kind in Angel's eyes. But then it was gone, and Faith sighed, standing. It would be a long, quiet drive to the place she had never called home.

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She assumed at first that Angel was drinking the blood she left for him, in the living room area of her crowded apartment. But when she attempted to move the couch two days after she had set him up there and discovered the full, unopened blood bags hiding underneath, she first realized that Angel was capable of practicing his own form of self-punishment.

She sat him down and displayed the dusty bags before his face, waving them with frustration, but worry shone bright in her eyes.

"Becoming the first anorexic vampire won't do shit for fixing things, Angel, and it's costing me money I don't have to just throw around. This bullshit of yours ends now. You're drinking both of those if I have to feed them to you myself."

And she did. When Angel held the offered bag with limp fingers and would not raise it to his mouth, Faith snatched it back, boring a hole and holding it to his mouth, refusing to let him turn his face away. After both bags were empty, she tried to keep herself from shuddering in revulsion as she cleaned the blood off his face.

The first few days of this, all she could think was how disgusting it was. Faith was unbothered by injuries, unfazed by blood and gore, whether real or imagined, but to see Angel drain a bag of blood made her stomach twist with nausea as hazel eyes open and vague in death flickered into her mental view. But the fourth time, though, she could feel her thoughts begin to shift, to change into a protective near tenderness towards Angel in this time, almost as if he were a child, her child, though she had never been the motherly sort. It was one of the few times he would let her close enough to touch him. And by the end of the week, she did not need to ask him or force him to drink.

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They settled into a routine; Faith spent her nights slaying, her days watching Angel, trying to work with him to make him respond to her, to make him look at her as if he recognized her face. So far any successes on her part were small and few, and she wondered at times if she had invented them entirely.

She had little money and tried not to think about what would happen or how she would manage when she ran out. She had had no need for it, while on the road with Giles; he had taken care of everything in a way that seemed practical rather than charity. But now with no job and no way of obtaining the things she needed, her every familiar lifelong struggle with poverty seemed to be knocking on her door.

The others probably knew where she was- Buffy, Xander, Willow- but Faith would never ask them for help, and of course they did not offer it. She wouldn't have accepted it if they had. Though she had almost expected it, no one called her or tried to contact her, not even to curse her or demand Angel back from her protection. She didn't hear from them at all, until she was told of Giles's will.

To be continued


	3. Chapter 3

All About Forgiveness

Disclaimer first chapter

Author note: The contents of Giles's will are canon to season eight. I didn't make it up for anyone who may object lol

Chapter 3

Giles's will changed everything. All of Giles's money, all of his belongings, all of his estate, everything he owned for the most part, now belonged to Faith…she would never have conceived of such a thing as having even the most remote possibility.

Sure, she and Giles had bonded over the past year…sure, there had been something there, a love of sorts she could not define. And sure, he and Buffy had been on the outs. But he had loved Buffy more than any other person alive. He had thought of her as his kid. There was no way in hell he had loved Faith as much as Buffy, and as touched as she was, she didn't understand.

Neither, of course, could Buffy. After the initial outburst of disbelieving, shattered tears on the blonde Slayer's part, she had later gone to Giles's- now Faith's- flat with Faith, to retrieve the one item Giles had left her…a book, a crappy Slayer handbook. And within the first five minutes- hell, within the first sixty seconds- she had asked Faith why.

She wasn't angry- not like Xander, or the others. She wasn't jealous, or anything else Faith would have expected. She was just bewildered…bewildered, and shocked, and more than a little hurt. Not unlike Faith herself.

She wanted answers, an explanation of Giles's seeming slight towards her and generosity towards Faith, and Faith gave her one, the only one she could accept as logical. Giles must have thought her to be weak, unable to rise on her own without all the help from others she could get, to make it through life financially without slipping up again. Buffy, in contrast, the real Slayer, was strong enough not to need anything.

Those were her words to Buffy, and they seemed to comfort her, enough that the other girl could go her way in near peace.

Faith considered, but could not believe, that Giles's generosity stemmed not from pity, but from deep love and respect. It was not possible that the man could see her in such a manner, far less that she could do anything to make herself worthy of it.

She moved Angel into Giles's flat with her. The others had been horrified at her intentions, bristling at the very thought of his killer taking residence in what had once been his home. But to Faith, it was what Giles would have wanted and expected of her. To Faith, it was a fitting tribute to his memory, and the memory of their work together. Redemption. Saving lives. It went hand in hand with the notion of forgiveness.

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It had been nearly three months since Giles was…since Giles had died. Even after this space of time, Faith could not quite bring herself to say even in her own mind "since Angel had killed Giles." With Giles's apartment and material wealth, she would not have to worry about her material survival for the rest of her life, if she didn't want to. But Angel's was another story.

Every day Faith sat with him in his room and talked to him, brought him blood, tried to invoke some sort of response. It was rare for him to do so much as acknowledge her presence, and she knew that his nightmares were continuing. There was no telling what thoughts lay behind his blank gaze when he was awake.

Faith herself often had nightmares; it was a rare night that she didn't awaken speaking aloud or near tears, her heart racing as sweat dampened her brow and the sheets beneath her. She patrolled and went to clubs, dancing until the early hours of the morning and sometimes having sex with her acquaintance of the night in the backseat of his car or the narrow bed of his apartment. She never took them home with her, not into Giles's house. It was still Giles's house to her instead of her own, and to do so would be a violation and disrespect she would not show.

Every day, everywhere she looked, there was Giles, a reminder of his former existence. She was living in his house, using his things, and she could not escape his memory. Sometimes it was comforting, as if he were aware of her and watching her from somewhere beyond- where, Faith had no idea and didn't really care to wonder. Sometimes it made her feel anxious or angry; sometimes she was just sad, and felt very alone in the world, even with Angel sitting before her.

Especially with Angel sitting before her.

Each morning when she woke and each evening she left, each time she sat with Angel and faced his silence, the ache of her physical and emotional isolation grew wider and stronger inside her chest. It was necessary; Faith knew that. And what she was doing with Angel was important, a job no one else was willing to even try.

Still, sometimes she only wanted to leave and never come back. Sometimes she wanted to call the others and talk to them as if they still respected her and spoke to her. And sometimes, she looked at Angel and wanted so badly to see in him something as simple as a smile that she almost wept.

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"So.. I guess you're still keeping him, right? Angel, I mean."

Faith still couldn't believe that Buffy called. That anyone would call, other than salespeople, wrong numbers, or creditors. When she had answered the phone and heard the other Slayer's hesitant voice on the other end, she had immediately expected nothing short of a catastrophe. The death of someone close to Buffy and well-known to Faith, the impending death of Faith herself, or at the very least an apocalypse approaching. Or maybe it was just that Buffy had finally got over her shock of Giles's will, had switched over to indignant and pissed, and was ready to ream her out and contest it.

The last thing she had expected was for Buffy to stumble around making small talk, and to do so in a way that was without hostility, as if she were even nervous. And when Buffy finally brought up Angel, Faith was almost able to relax, even as she continued to assess Buffy's words carefully.

So this was the real reason for Buffy's call…Angel. She probably wanted to make sure he was still a zombie, and not going out on a killing rampage every night. Or maybe she wanted assurance that Faith still was willing to keep him and not about to pawn him off to someone else. Or maybe she was looking to convince her to give up on him, or let other people kill him. Yeah, that was probably it.

"Yeah, B. I'm still keeping him," Faith told her, trying to keep her tone casual, revealing little emotion one way or another. She could just picture the blonde's creased brow and troubled expression as she attempted to organize her next question.

"So…how is he…I mean…any change, or….is he doing…"

"Not really," Faith interrupted, not wanting to hear Buffy's fumbling attempt at phrasing any more than Buffy seemed to want to ask. "But I've got it. He'll be alright. And you know, one day. I'm not giving up on the guy."

"Right," Buffy muttered, her voice dropping low, and an uncomfortable silence fell between them.

Faith's hand tightened around the phone's receiver. She didn't know where to go with this conversation, but she wasn't quite willing to cut it off. It seemed years since she had talked to Buffy, or anyone really, for longer than it took to take them to bed or pay for food. As awkward as this was, she found herself scrambling for something to say, some way to prolong their talk.

"Faith…are YOU okay?" Buffy asked suddenly, after an audible intake of breath, and although her voice was rushed, still nervous, Faith heard the sincere concern behind it. "I mean…what you're doing…it's a lot. So are you…are you okay?"

It hit Faith then that maybe this, and not Angel, was the real reason behind Buffy's call….that maybe Buffy had thought about her long enough to worry, and then cared enough to follow through with a call. Was that really possible? Was it possible that Buffy might worry not that Faith would become an Angel all over again, but for Faith herself, for her emotional well- being?

Before she could censor it tears came to Faith's eyes, and even though she took a few moments to reply, her voice was still softer than usual, and her hands still tightly gripped her phone.

"Yeah, B. I'm five by five."

To be continued (next one is last)


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Disclaimer chapter 1

She never did find out how he got hold of it. But when Faith opened the door to Angel's room one night after patrol, a bag of blood in her hand, and found him hunched in the corner, a stake in his hand and positioned with the sharp point against his chest, she lost it.

She flew out at him, the blood bag dropping to the floor, screaming, swearing, shoving him down to the ground and ripping the stake from his hands. Gesturing with it wildly, she loomed over him, demanding in a shrill, anguished voice she didn't recognize for him to tell her when he would stop it, when he would just snap out of it, just give her a break, just give her a hand, when would he give her something, anything, when would he give her something, anything, when would he show her that what she did mattered, that the one person who gave a shit, about him anymore mattered, when would he do that, when?

When would he let her help him…when would he let her exist with him…when would he be better. When.

When her tears came, hot and scalding down her cheeks, and the sobs tore apart her voice, Faith lay her head on his chest and hugged him furiously, crying from anger and frustration, exhaustion physical as well as mental, and the deep fear and stunned memory of the way his face had remained so empty even as she yelled at him, even as he held the stake to his chest. She cried as she seriously considered for the first time the possibility that nothing she did would matter, because Angel was truly gone.

But even as she feared, it did not escape her notice that Angel did not cringe away from her touch…nor that his arm very slowly curled around her, circling her in a light, tentative embrace.

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Faith didn't leave Angel's room that evening. She didn't remember falling asleep against him, somewhere in the time of their embrace, but she must have, for when she opened her eyes, she was lying on his bed, his blanket carefully tucked around her shoulders. The only explanation, as seemingly incomprehensible as it was, was that Angel had carried her there.

She sat up slowly, her eyes flickering about the room in its darkness, and came to rest on the huddled form in the corner. Angel was turned away from her, back hunched, head lowered, and his shoulders were shaking slightly.

Slipping slowly and quietly out of bed, Faith approached him; when Angel did not turn or acknowledge her awakening, she reached out a hand, gently grasping his shoulder.

He turned towards her so suddenly that Faith was startled, and when she saw the blood dripping out his mouth and down his chin, streaked over his palms, her heart leapt to her throat, and she took a step back, barely stopping herself from screaming. But when her eyes took in the mostly emptied blood bag she had brought him the night before, lying at his feet, she relaxed visibly, raising her eyes back to his face in time to see the tears, streaking down his cheeks and mingling with the blood on his chin.

Her heart thudding rapidly in her chest, her palms growing clammy, tingling, Faith slowly reached out for him again, her brow creasing as she spoke his name. This was the first time she had seen him show such overt emotion in months, and she wasn't sure, now that it was there, what to make of it, or what to do.

"Angel…it's okay. Angel?"

He didn't pull back from the hand on his shoulder. He stood shaking, swallowing several times, and his lips parted with no sound emerging, new tears making their way down the path of the old. When he spoke, for the first time in months that Faith knew of, his voice was hoarse and dry, barely more than w hisper.

"Faith…why are you here…why do you do this?"

She looked into his eyes, his trembling lips, his pale face, painted with blood and tears, and in it all Faith saw herself reflected back at her, who she had been, who she was, and who it was that she wanted to be…, and at last, who it was that Giles had believed she could be. Who Giles had believed she was. She saw it all, and she took Angel's bloody hands in hers and squeezed them with strong but gentle emphasis.

"Because you taught me well once…and now, I'm all about forgiveness."

Two pairs of palms touching, one large, marked with blood, the other smaller but no less capable of great force, taking on the stains of the other. And as they stood face to face, slowly, deliberately, two sets of fingers began to intertwine.

The end


End file.
